


The Prodigal Son

by S_Faith



Series: My Own Little Sub-Universe [7]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-08
Updated: 2007-09-08
Packaged: 2019-03-12 14:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13549425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Sometimes youcango home again.





	The Prodigal Son

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been percolating in my head for a long, _long_ while. I'd always wondered about this character—there's really scant little said about him in the books, and he's excised completely from the movie. I began to fantasize about him running off to do something scandalous like become a rock star, or an actor. ;) I then thought about it some more, and invented a (I hope) plausible scenario to explain his absence—and then his return.
> 
> I realize too that this could have been done without a certain original character, but he's back by request. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: Not my characters, but every word here was written by me.

It had been a very long time.

The house he'd spent most of his childhood in looked no different than he remembered, if smaller than had once been perceived by his young brain. It was a large house by any reasonable standard, veritably an estate mansion in the middle of a sprawling park, built of hewn grey stone with windows taller than he ever would be, surrounded by hedges and serviced by the semi-circle drive he'd just parked his modest Ford Fiesta on the side of, innocuously behind a silver-grey BMW.

All of this he'd walked away from, and he still had no regrets. It was by the prompting of a misdirected wedding invitation that had he was back now, and a happy occasion was as good a time as any to return.

As the wind blew prickling snow across his exposed cheek, he stepped away from his vehicle and crunched up the driveway, covering his face with his woolen muffler. He glanced up to see what progress he'd made and was startled to see a woman—girl?—dressed in full winter kit making a snow angel; she was on her back, her arms and legs moving in arcs through the fresh snow. He wondered if he'd somehow managed to traverse the space-time continuum and happen upon his best girl mate from down the road waiting for a much younger version of him to come outside to play.

The figure sat up with a start, very obviously embarrassed to have been caught making angels in the snow, and got to her feet post-haste, brushing the powdery white flakes from her arms, body, backside. It was in fact a woman, and he wondered why this strange woman was rolling around in the snow in front of his childhood home. "Hello," he said, smiling genially.

She stared, brow furrowed. Her blonde hair stuck out messily from beneath the edge of her knit cap; her cheeks were bright pink and her eyes watering from the sting of the cold. "Happy Christmas," she began tentatively, offering a sheepish yet friendly smile. "May I help you?"

Now it was his turn to be confused. "Do Admiral and Mrs Darcy still live here?"

"Yes, yes," she said with continued caution. "Are you here to see them? Are they expecting you?"

"Yes, and… not exactly." He wasn't intending on being so mysterious, but he had no earthly idea who it was he'd been met by.

She looked ever quizzical, opened her mouth to ask for details, but closed it again as if she'd been suddenly reminded not to be so nosy. "Um. I could bring you inside. Come on."

She preceded him up the stairs, but prior to opening the door she turned back to him. "Not to be cheeky or anything," she asked, "but before I let you in: who are you, anyway?"

He could not stifle a chuckle. "I could ask the same of you, bringing me into my own parents' home."

Her face dropped with shock. "Oh my _bloody_ God and—you're _Peter_ , aren't you?"

"Yes," Peter said, "but I'm afraid that you have me rather at a disadvantage."

"I'm sorry you didn't make it to the wedding, but glad to meet you now." She beamed brightly, then thrust her mittened hand out for him to shake. "I'm Bridget."

He felt his own face fall with bewilderment. This was his brother's new wife? Perhaps he had been away too long, after all. Remembering himself, he took her hand and shook it.

"Not quite what you were expecting, I gather," she said almost solemnly at his look as she threw wide the front door, stomping snow from her feet before walking inside. She pulled her knit cap from her head and the mittens from her hands, setting them all just inside the door on the table that had been there from his youth for just that purpose.

"Not at all," he said, then added quickly, "I mean, I was expecting a completely different sort of woman, one more like Mark's rather, er—" He lowered his voice, darting his eyes side to side. "—unpleasant first wife."

Her features softened as she ran her hands over her untamed hair in a somewhat belated attempt to make herself presentable. "Well, Peter Darcy, I do believe I like you already." Her smile was infectious and he found himself grinning.

They were each slipping out of their coats and boots when they heard the distinct approach of shoes on the hardwood floor. He had not been gone so long that he didn't know exactly whose footfalls those were, and voice that followed confirmed it, echoing from the upper floor: "Bridget, child, is that you? Where have you been?"

' _Child'?_ Such an affectionate and endearing manner of address by the man. Peter was shocked, quite frankly, at both this and her address to him in reply.

"Yes, it's me, Uncle Nick; I've just been outside for fresh air," she called back, as he appeared at the top of the stairs, beginning his descent. She mimed what Peter took to be smoking a cigarette and Nick nodded, understanding completely.

He did not appear to see Peter at first but when he did his step faltered, his eyes widened. "Well, I'll be. A bloody Christmas miracle." Peter was unsure at first whether or not his uncle was being his usual sardonic self until the man actually grinned, came forward with arms outstretched and hugged him—then slapped him very briskly on the shoulder. "You're a little late for the wedding," he added.

It was a very promising sign of things to come if even his uncle was literally welcoming him home with open arms.

"I believe your mother and father are preparing lunch," continued his uncle as they walked towards the kitchen.

"They'll be _really_ pleased," added his sister-in-law.

Could this really have been so easy?

"Malcolm? Elaine? There's someone to see you."

The look of delighted surprise on his parents' faces was much more than he expected. His father stood from his place at the table with happy bluster and his mother's eyes filled with tears as she raced around to embrace him in a most indecorous manner. "The last we heard from you," she said, "you were in Hong Kong and engaged…?"

He laughed. It had been a very long time since he'd been in Hong Kong, fancied himself the marrying kind. If Hong Kong had been the only address they'd had for him, no wonder the invitation had taken so long to catch up with him. "Don't worry—there never was a wedding, after all."

"So what are you… where are you…" He could tell his mother had no way to frame the questions she wanted to ask without sounding completely ignorant of her own son's life. That was something he took full responsibility for.

"I'm waiting on domestic reassignment. I have high hopes they'll give me London." The exchange of blank, confused looks led him to elaborate. "I just finished a stint with Doctors Without Borders. They're looking for a place for me in the system."

He didn't know why he should feel so surprised at the looks of esteem this bit of information had gathered him. He might have rebelled against the entitlement of his family's social class and wealth, but he had never intended to let the medical training he'd gotten as a result of that fortune of birth go to waste.

"Wow," Bridget said breathlessly. "Where were you last?"

"The Sudan, and before that—"

"Peter?"

He should have known instantly who was missing from the kitchen, whose voice he now heard querying incredulously from behind him. This was the one face-to-face meeting he had been looking forward to the least, and with a swallow to strengthen his resolve he turned to face his elder brother.

"Hello, Mark."

Mark looked no different than he remembered. Hair still dark and neatly cropped, expression hard to read, bearing still stiff and reserved, though at least Mark was not dressed in a suit and tie here on Christmas morning, though that wouldn't have surprised Peter in the least. Mark seemed to have hardly aged since last he'd seen him just prior to Mark's first wedding. Peter thought of the woman he just met as she was playing in the snow on the front lawn and wondered how her union with the brother he'd known could have ever been possible.

"You're looking well," Mark said. It was as difficult as ever to gauge his thoughts.

Peter decided an ice-breaker might be in order. "Thanks. So are you. Congratulations, by the way—I've had the pleasure of meeting your bride already."

"Thank you," he said, his tone measured and impossible to interpret.

"I only got the invitation a week ago," Peter hastened to explain. "When I returned from my stint in Darfur. I'm really sorry I missed it."

There was a moment, a split-second, when Peter swore he saw an expression of emotion cross his brother's face. Then it was gone. Mark was careful to immediately put the mask back into place.

Bridget sidled up to Mark, slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. "This is a nice surprise, isn't it?" she asked. Mark turned his eyes to her, but did not answer. Peter was not particularly wounded; his seeing Mark again was going just as he expected.

"Are you hungry?" asked Elaine, cutting the tension. "We were about to have some lunch. It's later than usual but better late than not at all, right?" She winked, and Peter felt much relieved.

Without a word Mark departed the kitchen.

Bridget looked torn, like she knew she should go after him but had many, many questions of her own to ask. Peter met her eyes, and he indicated wordlessly that she should follow her husband. If she wanted the story behind the awkwardness she'd just witnessed, Mark would have to tell it to her.

………

He placed his hand on his brother's shoulder. "I'm really happy for you."

There must have been something unconvincing about the expression on his face or the way he'd said it because Mark's mouth went from a smile to a firm, taut line. "But…?"

"'But' nothing." The words were not even convincing to his own ears.

"If there's something you want to say, Peter, go ahead and say it. I'm a big boy. I can take it."

He let out a breath. He was certain he had not misread the situation. "You say that you love her, Mark. I just haven't gotten the feeling that she feels the same about you."

"What do you know about how she feels about me?" he asked.

Peter desperately wanted to tell his brother about how she had cornered him at the rehearsal dinner, had come on to him in the coat room, boldly pushing her fingers into the crotch of his pants, but what good would that have done now? They were to be married in two days. Peter looked down. He was torn between saying the right thing and alienating his brother, or not saying anything at all and dooming his brother to a bad marriage.

He realised he had to at least try; at least he would have a clear conscience.

"I think you're getting married for the wrong reasons," Peter said at last.

"What on earth is that supposed to mean?" Mark said in a very low tone.

"She's pretty, I grant you that; she's definitely well-connected; on the surface she makes a perfect wife for a man of your stature—but a marriage can't be treated like a business merger. There's got to be respect, real love, or it's doomed to failure. And I'll be honest: I don't see a whole lot of love there."

As he said it he realised such brutal truthfulness might have been too much so close to Mark's actual wedding day. If he hadn't known his brother so well he would never have suspected the seething anger just below the surface, belied by the trembling of his hands. Mark's stare was as hard as they come. "What do you know about love? You are hardly what I'd call an expert in the field."

His words cut Peter to the quick, but he could hardly fault his brother for not having information Peter himself had been so careful to withhold. Once more he looked away, unable to bear the intensity of his brother's gaze.

"I appreciate your telling me your true feelings," Mark said, his voice calm yet quivering. "It's best to know now rather than to have you stand by me at the altar offering insincere support."

Peter nodded. He knew what coming next.

"I'll ask Daniel to take your place."

Excuses were made, easy to invent for a man whose career called him away to far-off places at the blink of an eye, amidst familial protest. When word reached Peter two weeks later regarding the betrayal of Mark's new wife with the man who had replaced him at Mark's side, he did not feel triumph. He only felt sadness. He knew all too well what this was doing to his brother, to his pride; he knew how much the innuendo and the gossip must have hurt, how burdened he must have felt, how much he must have blamed himself for not seeing what Peter himself had seen only after a scant few days. Peter wanted to reach out and offer his support to his only brother, but knowing Mark as he did, and knowing the hurt Mark was feeling, it would have been interpreted only as rubbing salt in the wound.

Best to leave things at status quo.

………

Luncheon had an air of polite disregard. Everything was superficially pleasant between his parents, his uncle and himself—neither Bridget nor Mark had returned to eat—while the five hundred pound gorilla only Peter could see sat quietly in the corner. Only his mother betrayed a hint of awareness of the edginess between her sons even as she insisted Peter get his things and that a room would be made up for him. His father, Malcolm, was a genial enough man but spent a lot of his time living in the glory of his past in Her Majesty's Service and wasn't as adept at social nuances as Elaine. Nick, as always, kept to himself, busily marking his newspaper with a pen.

His parents departed—first his mother, off to prepare a room for her son, then his father—and he was left to finish the remnants of the overly generous serving with his uncle at the far end of the table, diligently working through the second crossword of the day.

"So which influential Tory minister's family does she come from?" Peter asked in a light tone, hoping to both spur a little conversation and find out more about the blonde who'd greeted him.

"Who's that?" Nick asked distractedly, continuing to write a long string of letters into the puzzle.

"Bridget."

Nick stopped what he was doing, lowered the pen from its writing position, looked to his nephew then blinked once with astonishment. Peter watched as Nick smiled and he began to laugh. "That's very funny," he said, pointing the tip of his pen at Peter.

"Why is that funny?" asked Peter, sincerely puzzled but thoroughly amused. "How else could such unanimous approval be possible?"

"She was apparently a childhood friend, though I don't recall ever meeting her then. You? You're probably too young to remember. I'm sure your mother will pull out photos at the earliest given opportunity."

"How long have you known her?"

Nick was thoughtful. "Not quite a year."

"Yet you approve." Peter gave him a sidelong glance. "And she's not a Tory."

Nick chuckled again. "Not even close."

………

After retiring from the kitchen, Peter had made excuses to go and read in peace. He'd taken a seat in the capacious rear sitting room, peering out into the snow-covered park from his chair near the window; he had a book on his knee, but he hadn't actually bothered to open it. Instead he was surreptitiously observing his brother walking with his wife out into the middle of the park, she with her arm around his waist, he with his head bowed low. Clearly she was trying to talk to him and it was not going well, because her look of annoyance was quite easily visible even from Peter's perch in the window. She stopped; he trudged ahead. She crouched down, appearing for a moment like she'd dropped something and stopped to pick it up, but then he saw her making that universal snowball-forming cupping motion with her hands. Before he could even blink she stood upright and pitched it to strike squarely between Mark's shoulders. He stopped, turned, a look of surprise on his features. She said something to him in return—"I warned you," if Peter's lip-reading could be trusted—and instead of the stern scolding he expected to see from his uncompromisingly serious brother, he watched as Mark's face transformed into the broadest grin he swore he'd ever seen in place there.

And then he broke into a run. Peter could clearly hear her squeal as she tore away. Considering the boot/snow/friction factor, they were both moving pretty quickly. However, Mark's long limbs made it difficult for her to outrun him. Within seconds he had caught up to her, wrapped his arms about her waist from behind, picked her up and spun her in a circle. She was laughing wildly despite her flailing limbs. He then set her down on her feet again and turned her to face him so that he might place his gloved hands upon her ruddy cheeks then kiss her, quite at length.

Peter realised he must have been gawking, and he stood from the chair, pacing deeper into the room. If he only thought he was in an alternate universe before, he was certain he was now. Who was this miracle of a woman, and how exactly had she so transformed him?

Peter didn't need to ask, though. He was sure he already knew.

He approached the window once more to see only the remnants of the chase remained, trails of footprints curving through the snow. Late December meant a very early sunset, and he watched as the sky grew progressively dimmer, watched as his own face became more prominently visible in the glass before him: the aquiline nose he had never been overly fond of, the steel-grey blue eyes he'd inherited from his mother's side of the family, the short, dark wavy hair and sideburns so like his brother's.

He heard a quiet throat-clearing behind him. He turned to see Bridget approaching very timidly. She had been inside long enough to compose herself after her romp through the snow. "I'm sorry to bother you. It's uncanny, really," she began.

There was a moment of disconnect during which he could not help but blurt, "What?"

"How much you look like Mark when you're deep in thought."

"Ah." He chuckled, though it was not the first time he'd heard that old saw.

"Except your hair's a bit longer than Mark would ever go for…" She was trying to be pleasant, and he appreciated the effort she was making, but he knew it wasn't Mark's wife he needed to hash this out with. She sighed. "Listen, Peter," she said solemnly, drawing her hands to clasp in front of her. "I know you know how Mark can be. I also know you don't know me from a hole in the ground and have no reason to listen to a thing I say, but if one of you don't swallow your pride and go talk to the other I'm going to go absolutely mental, and given my past Christmases with near-fist-fights over sieving gravy versus stirring it, that's saying something."

One thing was certain with this one, he thought. She was not afraid to speak her mind; no passive-aggressive mind games or power trips. "I'm sure it's not as simple as that," said Peter, turning to face her and coming away from the window. "The last time I tried talking to him in any form I got sacked as best man."

She pulled a corner of her mouth into a sympathetic half-smile. "He told me all about that. I'm sorry." She took a step closer. "He's sorry too. Not taking your advice more seriously is something he's regretted."

Peter was astonished. "He said that to you?"

"Well… not in so many words."

"Of course not. Stoic and taciturn, as always."

Bridget cast her eyes down, but uttered a sharp ironic chuckle. "So very like your brother, you are. Well. I can't say I didn't try." She then turned to leave but paused at the door to look to him one last time before she left. "I'm supposed to tell you that dinner is at seven."

When she left the silence underscored the sound of his own voice in his head, and it was almost more than he could bear. His mother, his father, his uncle were all just like he'd remembered, just as he expected, and he'd been so expecting the same of his brother that he never considered his brother might not be the same man he'd last known. Maybe, just maybe, this Mark would be able to understand.

Well—it was Christmas, after all, and Christmas was for telling the truth.

………

"Peter. You really don't have to do this."

"Yes, actually, I do." He loaded the last of his things to donate onto the back of the pickup truck, destined for OxFam or wherever Charlie decided to take it.

"Was it something I did? Are you feeling too boxed in? I know I had a tendency to perhaps coddle you a bit more than I should have, being my youngest…"

He chuckled. If anyone was boxing him in, it was himself. "No, Mother. It was nothing that anyone did. I just can't take this all to a studio flat."

His poor mother looked so puzzled. "Is that all a new doctor can afford?"

"It's all that I want. Besides, I won't be in Manchester for long, I wager."

"You mean you're coming back?" she asked, her voice full of a hope she probably rationally knew not to have.

"I mean moving on from there." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "It isn't as if I don't appreciate all you've both given me and done for me. I just feel like I need to do… something more."

"I'm not sure I really understand," said Elaine, concern still rife on her face. "But you're a grown man now and neither your father nor I can stop you."

He appreciated them not holding his familial obligation over his head or threatening to cut him off should he choose to leave, because he would have left all the same even as it tore his heart in two. Regardless of social stature they were good people and always had been; there were, however, things he was certain they wouldn't understand. The hatred of the trappings of the wealth his family enjoyed was something he had often spoken of, and now it served as the prime reason for leaving his family now. That was all they really needed to know.

"Oy, Pete, come on. We're never going to make it there in time," called Charlie from behind the wheel of the truck.

"Well, Mum. I have to go."

Tears welled in her eyes. "Your brother and your father are going to be upset that they didn't get to say goodbye in person."

He had specifically chosen the same weekend his father and brother were otherwise occupied in London celebrating Mark's being called to the Bar by Inns of Court. The fewer people he'd had to make in-person excuses to, the better. "It isn't as if I'm being launched into space. I'll be in touch."

That seemed to cheer her; she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and managed a small smile. "I'm going to hold you to that."

He reached forward and embraced her. "I will. Promise."

With another smile he pulled back, met her glossy eyes for a moment before releasing her. "Well. Best be off."

He slid into the passenger side of the truck, and within moments Charlie had the truck moving down the drive. Peter resisted looking back, not wishing to seem mawkish or sentimental, yet didn't say a word to Charlie lest somehow he be miraculously overheard by his mother.

"Didn't tell her, did you," Charlie said once they'd reached A14, as if he'd sensed Peter's uneasiness regarding parental proximity.

Peter felt unexpectedly ashamed. "No."

"Eh, it's okay, really," said Charlie, patting him affectionately on the knee. "You will when the time's right."

………

Peter was unsurprised to find his brother in the one room he could count on for solace, surrounded by the tomes of his youth as if they were old friends. The library was and always would be their holy ground, their Switzerland.

Almost imperceptibly Mark ceased perusing the shelves, dropping his head ever so slightly before he said, "Peter."

"Mark." He drew closer, placing his hand on Mark's shoulder as he had those years ago. "I really am happy for you. No buts."

Mark turned to look at Peter, the muscles in his jaw working overtime as he struggled to find the words for his brother. Peter had been thinking about what to say and was not similarly handicapped, so he continued: "I _am_ sincerely sorry I was right the last time. I never wanted what happened… to happen. You must know that."

He watched as Mark's face softened; he blinked in disbelief before finally speaking. "Bridget pestered and pestered me to invite you and I just… I wanted you there, but I assumed you wouldn't come. I assumed you were still angry at me. And then… you _didn't_ come…"

Peter laughed. He couldn't help it; the old adage about assuming came whizzing giddily and inappropriately into his head. "I thought you were angry at _me_ this whole time. I didn't want to call you right away lest you thought I was looking for some way to gloat over being right. And then after that… it was never a good time."

"What with being in the Sudan and all," Mark said, and just like that, a smile caught hold of the corner of Mark's mouth and didn't let go, culminating in an uncomfortably tight embrace of his brother before he seemed to remind himself that this probably was improper behaviour for a thirty-eight-year-old world-renowned human rights lawyer. He pulled back, tugging down on the lower hem of his jumper. The remnant of a grin remained. "I _was_ angry with you for being right… but then I realised I was angrier at myself for being so blind and foolish." He looked pensive for a moment and then continued. "You did save me a second time, you know."

Peter furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?"

"I nearly made the same mistake all over again, this time with one of my colleagues." Mark explained how he'd grown close to another woman he thought he loved, and it was only by meeting Bridget that he finally realised how wrong he'd been. He explained how he'd given up a prestigious American partnership and walked out on a near-engagement to just to have one shot with the woman who was now his wife; obviously the most spontaneous thing he'd ever done had paid off in spades. "Mind you," Mark concluded, "it has been anything but a smooth road, but…" Mark stopped, seemingly changing gears. "It seems I owe you another apology—for alluding that perhaps you didn't have the relationship experience to know what you were talking about. You were far wiser than I was regardless."

Peter felt his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. Here was his opening. His brother, a man who was changed by love and whose profession told of his inner feelings on the equality of all human beings, surely would be the one to understand best. "Mark, there is something I've been meaning—"

"Mark? Are you still in he—oh, Jesus, I'm so sorry." It was Bridget, looking mortified, retreating from the library with her hands up in an almost-surrender. "Please continue making up. I'm sorry. Worst timing ever."

Mark laughed, holding his hand out to her. "Come here, darling. It's all right. Fences are mended."

She took it, looking from Mark to Peter then to Mark again. Peter offered a smile, reluctant to swallow the nervous lump in his throat lest he seem anything but happy.

"Really?" she asked.

Peter nodded.

"Though Peter was about to say something else, weren't you?" Two expectant pairs of eyes were suddenly upon him.

"I'm not sure—" Peter began, his gaze darting to Bridget before he could stop it.

"D-do you want me to go?" interrupted Bridget. "Was this a family thing?"

 _Christmas. It's Christmas_ , he reminded himself as he fixed his eyes upon hers.

"Bridget, while it's true I don't know you at all well, you are family now and you should feel free to stay. Mark," he continued, turning his gaze to his brother, keeping a close reign on his features. "It wasn't as if I had no experience to draw from at the time. It was just experience I… chose to keep to myself."

"I don't unders—" Like that Mark seemed to arrive at the sum of four and stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the word, his colour fading, his expression swirling into an unreadable state. As cautiously optimistic as he'd been regarding Mark's reaction, Peter now fought the urge to run and hide. Just like always it was not easy to read Mark's face, to ascertain his thoughts. At least his hands weren't shaking.

As if she were watching a tennis match, Bridget's head turned from side to side between the two brothers, her confusion obvious.

"What about your ex-fiancée?" Mark asked at last. "In Hong Kong?"

"It's not that I don't like women or even occasionally fall in love with them," said Peter evenly. "I just don't prefer them."

" _Oh!_ "

Equally startled, Peter and Mark turned to look at Bridget, who had erupted forth with the sound. With her voice much quieter, she said, "Are you saying you… bat for both teams?"

Peter resisted the urge to laugh at her delicate euphemism, turning his gaze back to a very serious-looking Mark. "Yes. I am."

"Do you have a current… partner?" Mark asked suddenly. Peter would have given anything to know Mark's thoughts, cursing himself for not being able to better read his own brother and instantly convincing himself of the worst.

"No."

"Ooh," piped up Bridget. "I have a really nice friend in London named Tom—"

"Bridget, please," said Mark severely, looking to her then back to his brother. _Christ_ , thought Peter; _reconciliation, only to face estrangement immediately afterwards_. "Now is not the time, all right? Peter, I only ask because it would be a shame for them to be spending Christmas alone."

Peter could hardly believe his ears, and must have looked duly shocked, judging from Mark's immediate (and surprisingly playful) addendum:

"Don't look like that, like you think I torture babies in my spare time. You just caught me off guard, is all."

"I thought you'd probably be… all right with it, but it's always been hard to tell with you."

Mark glanced to his wife. "So I'm told."

It was a minute or more before Peter was aware enough to speak further on the subject. He had so been expecting rejection even in the face of reason that he had not formed a contingency plan. "What do you think…" he began, then paused. "…Mum will say? Or Dad? Or _Jesus_ , Uncle Nicholas…?"

"Come on, Peter, you're thirty-six—" Mark began with a light scoff.

"Mark, this is a tough thing to tell people!" interrupted Bridget, taking Peter's arm possessively and patting it. "Didn't you see how terrified Peter looked telling you?" Obviously Bridget had become an expert at reading the Darcy Mask of Features. "I remember how hard it was for Tom to tell us, though God knows we knew before he did, I think…"

"We get the picture," said Mark, grinning.

The chime on the clock began to go off at just that moment. It was seven, the appointed time for dinner. With her claim still on Peter's arm, she threaded her free arm through the crook of Mark's elbow, then pulled them together out of the library.

"I think," said Bridget as they strolled towards Christmas dinner, "that your parents would just want to know you're happy with who you are."

………

Charlie had been right, after all.

His mother was funny about it, screwing her eyes up for a moment before proclaiming that she had suspected all along and was glad that he wasn't simply lonely all that time. Nicholas, his uncle, didn't really say much except for muttering that he didn't understand the world today, but made no move to leave nor did he show any sign of disapproval. His father was too pissed to truly get what Peter was saying. All agreed it might be better that way.

The subject of conversation soon moved to the one person Peter knew the least, and Bridget turned redder than her wine when Elaine ran off to find a photo album, reminding Peter of their acquaintance as children, paddling pools, red wagons and all.

There was some regret expressed for the lack of notice regarding his arrival. Elaine declared that a gift to their prodigal son would be soon forthcoming, to which he protested, insisting they make a donation to charity in his name instead. With a subtle smile, Mark agreed, and urged his mother to do the same.

Other than that? Still no regrets. Peter didn't want to waste time considering the years he'd spent so far away from his family because that would imply regret for his medical aid work in Africa. That was something he could never do.

Yes, Charlie had indeed been right.

_The end._


End file.
